Johnlock, as Experienced by the Yard
by Shakespeare's Catamaran
Summary: What it says on the tin: The relationship of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, as seen through the eyes of our favorite Scotland Yarders. Each chapter is a new story. Cross-posted from AO3. Suggest new chapters in the comments! Chapter 5 under construction! Looking for a beta, PM me for more info.
1. Children

Sally didn't want to be here. Nobody wanted to be here, all of them trying not to think too hard about the two bodies sprawled on the floor. Two little bodies. Children, a boy and a girl, half-draped across each other, blood everywhere. Sally felt sick, and Lestrade sent her a questioning glance. She waved him off. This sickened her, but she wasn't going to back out. She had a job to do.

And then _they_ showed up. Freak and his dog. Now was not the time for him to show off and prance around this atrocity like the arrogant arsehole he was while his pet stood off to the side and gawped.

Sally was posted by the door, and Freak swept by her so fast that her hair shifted against her forehead. She brushed it away just as John came through the door at a much more reasonable pace and gave her the slightest nod in greeting. She didn't return the gesture.

Sally watched Freak squat down and peer at the bodies, then lay down flat and squint at them through his little pocket magnifying glass. John was pulling on gloves and looking down at the bodies with a look she'd never seen on the man before. His face was blank and grey, and he stared at the bodies for a long moment before he crouched down and examined them opposite from the Freak.

She looked away from the bodies, starting to feel sick again, and when she looked back, Sherlock was snapping closed his magnifier and rattling off his deductions with his typical pomposity. Then he turned and looked down and saw John, sitting back on his heels and pressing his wrist to his mouth with a bilious complexion, and he slowed. John stood up, cleared his throat, and quietly told them his medical opinion and then stepped off to the side, peeling his gloves off and looking uncharacteristically shaken. Freak finished his rant, then peeled off his own gloves, dropped them on the floor where he stood and silently swept over to where John was standing, pressing his wrist to his mouth again.

Lestrade was directing people to start moving things, and John briskly walked into the tiny cramped washroom near where Sally was posted.

And honestly, it wasn't her fault that her position was perfect for eavesdropping.

John lifted up the toilet seat and stood in front of it, slightly hunched over like he might vomit, and a few moments passed before Sherlock appeared, silently going to stand right behind his flat mate. He had the oddest expression on his face, barely there, and eventually it seemed like John decided he wasn't going to vomit and he turned around.

"John?" Freak asked quietly, and a hardened sort of expression fell on John's face.

"Sherlock, they were just children. Neither of them could've been older than eleven, if that," John said, pale. "Who would- they were poisoned, Sherlock. Maybe a large dose of superwarfarin, judging by the urine smell and the bleeding. It wasn't quick. It would've taken days of bleeding, internal and external, without food and water, for it to kill them. Necrosis. Paralysis. Vomiting, bleeding from the gums and the eyes and the skin, and you said that he stayed and watched." John turned back to the toilet and put his hands on his knees, screwing his eyes shut.

Sally covered her mouth and tried not to vomit herself. She didn't know what exactly was going on, why John was even saying those things. It's not like Sherlock would care, it was all just a case to him, just a damn puzzle.

Eventually John turned back around. Freak was making a pained sort of face, the outside of his cheeks narrowing his eyes and his lips pressed into a thin line. "You said that the killer _stayed_. And _watched_." John's back was ramrod straight, and his hands were balled up and shaking.

"I know. I don't-" Sherlock inhaled like he was going to keep talking but John barreled on.

"Look. I know that I'm a doctor, and a soldier, and a veteran, and I'm supposed to be able to deal with this, but I can't. Not when they're so young. I've seen too many children die, sent in waves over minefields, and I don't want to see anymore, Sherlock I don't understand-" John scrubbed at his face and clammed up, and Freak looked vaguely horrified, staring at John with his eyebrows barely slanted, eyes wide, mouth just open.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said, and then he moved forward a step and grabbed hold of John's hand in both of his own. Sally went wide eyed. "I didn't- I wasn't trying to upset you."

John sighed. "I know you weren't, Sherlock. It's not your fault."

Freak let go of John's hand and sort of haltingly put his hand on the line of John's jaw, like he wasn't quite sure how to do it right. "Do you want to go back to the flat? I'm sure Mrs. Hudson could-"

John shook his head, and Sherlock let his hand drop. "No. No, I want to find this guy. I want to find him now, and I want to find him first." John looked like a bomb about to explode, held in only by military resolve and woolly jumpers. "I need to have a _talk_ with him."

Sherlock nodded resolutely, and John nodded back. They looked like they were about to leave, so Sally quickly whipped her head to face front and tried to wipe the expression off of her face.

Freak swept out of the door next to Sally, making her hair flutter again. As John passed her by, he gave her another little respectful farewell nod, and this time she returned it.


	2. Pneumonia

When Lestrade had phoned Sherlock about this latest case, Sally had been sure that he would've been falling over himself to get to the crime scene. Instead, he showed up almost an hour after the call had been made. Sally wasn't sure that she had ever known him to take so long.

Now, Sally was a police officer. She was not dull, and she was not unobservant, but the moment that Freak ducked under the police tape, even a child could see that something was off.

Well, first was the fact that he was alone. John Watson was nowhere to be seen. The ever-present army doctor was no longer quite so ever-present.

Next, Sherlock seemed anxious. Anxious. Not only was 'anxious' a word that had never before been applied to the detective, but it was amazing to see something other than morbid glee or frustration on his face.

Sherlock was constantly shifting his weight from foot to foot. As she moved to stand next to Lestrade, Sally watched him grasp the tip of his left middle finger, tug his glove a bit loose and then jam it back on, over and over, until he caught her looking and shoved his hands in his coat pockets.

Also, his scarf was missing, and without it, the dark coat collar made his neck look too long.

From where he was leaning against the wall, Anderson sneered at Sherlock. "I see that someone's-"

The vaguely dishevelled detective turned and gave him a stare that Sally couldn't see from this angle, but whatever it was, it made Anderson shut his mouth and pale just a smidge.

Freak started doing his thing, circling the body (which, in this case, was entirely naked save for a pair of men's slippers) with a distinct lack of flair. A whole forty-five seconds passed, and then he turned on his heel and walked down the hallway deeper into the house. Another thirty seconds passed, and he stalked back over to Lestrade.

"House is trashed; burglary gone wrong, killer entered through the window, wore gloves, closed it after himself. Got caught in the act, killed him with the vase-" Here he pointed behind him to a matte powder blue vase on a shelf- "and wiped it clean with the expensive silk robe-"

"Wait, what robe?" Lestrade asked, but Sherlock didn't even look at him, he just kept talking, not pausing to take a breath or moving at all.

"-that the killer removed when the victim fell. Victim had three identical expensive silk robes and a still-wet and warm shower in his room, meaning he had just finished up when he came upon the burglary; killer is between 1.7 and 1.8 metres tall, male, size 12 shoe, bad case of flatfoot according to the footprints in the dirt outside; analyze those footprints for trace evidence, even you should be able to determine a rough location of their origin; before long the killer will want to get rid of some or all of his stolen goods, check pawn shops for bleached silk robes and the gold chain he was obviously wearing when he died. Please may I go home now, I have something very important to attend to."

Sally couldn't help the smirk that quirked her lips as she scoffed. "Really? What could possibly be so important to the great Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock's body went stiff, and he turned all the way to look her dead in the eyes with a formidably serious stare, shoulders squared, and he was so close to her face that she could see the subtle twitch in his lower left eyelid. "John has pneumonia, " He hissed, and then vanished before anyone could say a word.


	3. Hostage

Lestrade was currently hunched over a computer display, staring down live black and white CCTV footage from the inside of a bank- hostage situation. He'd only just arrived, and was still getting the rundown of the situation when he noticed something on the screen. He squinted at it, and zoomed in. There it was, clear as day: Sherlock Holmes, kneeling on the floor with his hands behind his back, was a hostage in a bank robbery. And next to him was John Watson.

Lestrade massaged the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh. He couldn't get away from those two if he tried. Donovan appeared over his shoulder and snorted. "You've got to be kidding me. Is that the Freak and his dog? In our hostage situation?"

Lestrade really disliked Donovan's nicknames for Sherlock and John. Sure, Sherlock was an arse, but she was stooping to his level, and John really didn't deserve it. Lestrade sent her a stern look. She tossed her hair, and Lestrade looked back to the display. SC019 was already set up outside, armed and ready.

"Anyway, we have three armed subjects. One waiting by the phone, the two others keeping an eye on the hostages. They each have a handgun, and this one-" She pointed to one of the pacing men. "-has an assault rifle," Donovan informed him.

Someone handed him a phone and told him to make the call. He dialed the number, and everybody in the room went quiet. The phone inside the bank rang, and the burglar near the phone decided to wait a few rings for dramatic effect.

One of the burglars stopped pacing in front of the hostages and moved in closer to the phone, and finally they picked up. "I ain't making any deals, cop," The masked man growled into the receiver.

"Let's just talk, alright? No deals, then. Tell me what you need," Lestrade said evenly. First step was to listen and understand.

"Listen, I know how this works. You're gonna try to talk me down, and we ain't gonna go nowhere but prison. Well, not this time. We're gonna show you that we mean business." There was a pause, and the second man motioned at the one still pacing. He stopped, hefted his assault rifle, and pointed it right at John's head. Lestrade went cold, but neither John nor Sherlock moved at all. "Before we get to our demands, we're gonna pick off one of these poor bastards. Nothin you can do about it, and maybe afterwards you give us what we asks for, cop." He stopped speaking, turned around, and motioned at John's captor, ignoring Lestrade shouting through the phone.

And then, Sherlock lunged forward and twisted, lashing out with his foot to catch the man on the ankle. Lestrade imagined a horrible cracking noise as the man screeched and stumbled, and over the phone, the negotiator shouted something indistinct. John likewise sprang into action, swiping both guns from the man. He pistol-whipped him once across the cheek with the butt of the handgun, and then drove his fist right below the man's ribcage. The masked man dropped like a stone, and before he hit the floor Sherlock pulled him into a rear naked choke and stood up, using him as a human shield as he moved forward.

Idiots, idiots both of them, Lestrade thought, and Sally was making some sort of odd noise right next to his ear.

John had already vaulted over the counter and out of sight. The rest of the hostages looked dumbstruck. Lestrade's whole room was a flurry of motion, and Donovan was making a pained sort of expression that he couldn't quite place. Back on the monitor, John suddenly appeared on the total opposite end of the room, directly behind the last two burglars, and pointed the handgun at the one not holding the phone. The negotiator spun around to face John, and Sherlock dropped his human shield, hefted up a stanchion, and swung it like a bat into his ribs. That man also dropped like a bag of rocks, and the only remaining man slowly put his hands up as streams of curses flowed through the phone's receiver while the negotiator rolled back and forth on the ground.

A swarm of uniformed officers poured in through the doors and started carting off the burglars and assisting the hostages, and as John and Sherlock made their leisurely stroll to the door (while several different SC019 officers shouted at them for being idiots), Lestrade watched as John stood on tiptoe and whispered something in Sherlock's ear. They both started giggling, shoulders shaking, and Lestrade bemoaned the fact that he knew such both wonderful and horrible men.

"What a pair," Lestrade grumbled to himself, and Sally, standing behind him, crossed her arms and tossed her hair again.

"They're gonna get themselves killed one day, you know?" She said, eyes still fixed on the screen. And then, barely visible on the CCTV feed, Sherlock reached down and took John's hand, and then planted the tiniest of kisses on John's temple. The dark haired detective then immediately looked up and away, shoulders squared, and John started laughing again.

Sally pursed her lips, and Lestrade watched as she walked away without another word.

Later that day, as the pair stood and took a very hearty tongue-lashing from Lestrade and half the SC019 force, Sherlock just grabbed John's hand and swung it back and forth, both of them grinning all the while.


	4. Turning Point

Marco, Imelda, and Sabino Tosto- aptly nicknamed the Tosto trio- had been narrowly evading the Yard for years. Their debut appearance occurred on Sally's second year on the force- she wasn't directly involved at that point, but everyone talked about it. In a fantastic first appearance, they blew out an entire wall of a Barclay's Bank using approximately three pounds of plastic explosives and made off with upwards of £26,000. Two people died as a direct effect of the explosion, four died in hospital, and dozens more were injured. The Tosto trio slipped into the shadows, and despite the Yard's best efforts, they escaped.

Exactly eight months later, they popped up in Elmbridge and pulled the exact same stunt, except this time, there were eighteen casualties, they took £30,000, and Lestrade put Sherlock Holmes on the case. This was actually the first time Sally ever had direct contact with Sherlock, and his callous questioning of the family of the deceased sparked her dislike of the man.

Despite his behavior, he managed to track down Marco and Sabino in a van just before they crossed into Hampshire in a highly publicized investigation. The stacks and stacks of bills in the back of the vehicle were enough to put the two brothers away, but the missing Imelda drove Sherlock crazy for weeks afterwards. The trail went cold, but he kept obsessing, repeatedly going to visit the two incarcerated brothers and yelling at them over and over until he was banned from seeing them again.

Time passed, and Lestrade piled case after case on Sherlock until finally he seemed to forget about the Tostos.

Then along came John Watson, and Sally had two weirdos to deal with.

And on the third anniversary of the incarceration of two-thirds of the Tosto trio, while John Watson was doing locum work, Sherlock Holmes answered the doorbell and disappeared without a trace.

John called Lestrade when he arrived to an empty flat and asked if he had given Sherlock a case.

The DI told him no.

John shrugged it off and sent Sherlock a text.

The detective's phone buzzed from underneath an Erlenmeyer flask on the kitchen table, and a tiny seed of worry planted itself in John's head.

Two days passed without a call or a text from Sherlock, and John phoned Mycroft. No dice.

He showed up to the Yard, little worry lines on his face, and asked Sally where Lestrade was.

Sally didn't really have a whole lot against John, but she often wondered how someone that seemed so reasonable could spend so much time with such a psycho.

Sally's curiosity got the best of her, and as John and Lestrade spoke in the DI's office, she leaned against the wall nonchalantly and eavesdropped.

"I haven't seen or heard from him in five days," John said, sounding haggard. "He just vanished while I was at the hospital, and he left his phone and his coat and scarf and everything. You're sure you didn't call him?"

"Yes, of course I'm sure," Lestrade replied. "What about Mrs. Hudson? Did she see anything?"

"She said that the doorbell rang and he went down to answer it, and she didn't see him go back up, but it's not like she was actively paying attention. She thought it was just a client. So no, she didn't see anything." John made a little noise, a quiet whine disguised as a sigh. "Lestrade, I'm worried. He's never been gone this long before without giving me some sort of notice."

There were a few beats of heavy silence, and Lestrade spoke up again. "What about that brother of his?"

"I checked already, but maybe I can get Mycroft to search the CCTV cams and look for anything."

"John, I'm sure he's alright. We'll find him. Maybe he just got distracted," Lestrade tried, reassuringly.

"No, no, he wouldn't just forget. He promised he'd call if he ever left, he promised." There was the sound of rustling clothes, and Lestrade sighed.

"I'll keep an eye out for him, okay? When was the last time you slept, anyway?"

John sighed again. "Three days."

"Good God, man, you're no help to anyone like this. Go get some rest. Sherlock's a grown man, he can wait a few hours for you."

John scoffed. "Grown man might be a bit of an overstatement."

"Go sleep, John," Lestrade sighed, and Sally scrambled away from the door as footsteps began inside. John came shuffling out. He didn't seem to notice her, and simply made his way out the door, Lestrade watching him go with an anxious air about him.

Two days later, a man with an umbrella walked into Lestrade's office without knocking. Sally called out at him in reproach, and he turned and gave her a look that made her shiver. The best way she could describe it was cold. It was a cold look- a look that made her feel exposed and incredibly vulnerable. He hadn't even said a single word, and already she wanted to turn around and leave the room.

She let him go in, and it dawned on her that this had to have something to do with Sherlock, because there was only one other man that could strip a person naked with a single look.

Sally was right.

Not long after, Lestrade came bursting out of the room, snapping orders left and right. He scraped together a team of six officers, Sally included, and within three minutes they were tearing out of the lot in a train of squad cars.

Sally was in the passenger's seat next to Lestrade, who was barking orders into his radio and pushing his eyebrows so close together that it looked like they might merge into each other.

The squad cars pulled into an alley silently, and Lestrade directed two officers to cover each exit of the massive warehouse. In its better days, it might've been painted a dull orange; now it was just the color of decay and rust, many of the windows punched out, and the remaining panes were opaque with yellow grime or painted over altogether.

Lestrade handed her a handgun, and a sense of foreboding settled in the pit of her stomach.

She was only half surprised when John Watson appeared, Browning in hand, wearing a beige jumper, and followed as Lestrade crept through the back entrance. Sally held rear, and an ominous sort of feeling crept up the nape of her neck and gave her goosebumps. Something bad was going to happen, right now. Something awful.

A metallic sort of jangling noise sounded to her far left, and all three of them spun to face it.

Now, the inside of the warehouse was shadowy, the daylight barely penetrating the few missing windows. But nevertheless, there was just enough light to illuminate a doorway to what might have one day been a control room. Lestrade glanced at her and John, and they all moved forward on silent feet toward the doorway.

Footsteps, sounding like heavy boots, came their way. The shadow moved, and suddenly, none other than Imelda Tosto appeared, knife in hand, an almost comical look of shock on her grimy face as she found herself facing three guns, a determined Detective Inspector, a thoroughly surprised Sergeant, and a stone-faced John Watson.

"Well, what a surprise," Lestrade said steadily. "Put your hands up, Tosto, and place your weapon on the ground."

With a sneer, the Italian complied, lowering the bloody knife to the floor and raising her hands in surrender. Lestrade moved behind her, pulled her arms down and clicked on the handcuffs. "What could you be doing here, then?"

John still had his gun fixed on the woman, and Sally noticed, with a growing sense of dread, several dark spots through the doorway that looked a lot like dried blood. She skirted around Imelda Tosto and made her way down a short hallway and around a corner into the old control room.

The huge off-white panels were mostly gutted of their electronics, the remains rusted and warping. Scraps of food wrappers, water bottles, and a ratty old sleeping bag littered the floor. The room was illuminated only by the light from the doorway, although a lantern sat atop one of the gutted control panels. She stepped forward, gun still at the ready, and turned on the lantern.

At first, she wasn't sure what she was looking at. It was a jumbled, dirty sort of heap slumped halfway against the far wall, unmoving. She stared at it for a good five seconds before she realized what it was, chained to a railway spike on the wall.

It was a person. It was a _person._

She took in the dark hair and the curls and the high cheekbones hidden under a lot of dried blood and dirt. It was fucking _Sherlock Holmes._

She screamed, half in fear and shock and half as a call for assistance, and sort of just stood there and stared at him, her hands shaking. One of his legs was at a very not-good angle, and there was a long slice along his rib cage that was still oozing blood. God, what was she supposed to do? What the hell was she supposed to _do?_

John Watson came rushing in, saw her standing motionless, staring at the god-awful sight in front of her, and he broke, his face falling to pieces.

Ignoring all sorts of gun safety rules, he dropped his gun where he stood and crashed to his knees next to Sherlock, eyes massive and shining and terrified.

 _Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,_ Sally chanted in her head, and Lestrade came bursting in.

"What happened? The others are taking her in-" And Lestrade saw it too, saw John frantically hunched over and checking for a pulse and wavering his hands like he was almost afraid to touch the man, and all the blood drained from his face. "Christ. I'll call for a medic," Lestrade said through his teeth, and rushed back out the door.

Sally finally let her gun fall to her waist, and she took a tentative step towards John.

Sherlock shifted his head just barely, and John jerked forward and ever-so-carefully lifted his head into his lap, slipping his fingers into the hair on the back of Sherlock's head, matted and crunchy with dried blood. Sherlock had two black eyes- the one on the right seemed worse than the left- but nevertheless, he blinked up at John as the army doctor started whispering to him.

"Jesus, Sherlock, Jesus, I'm here, I've got you, okay? I'm here, it's John, it's me," John said quietly, over and over.

Sally didn't like Sherlock Holmes. This was a given fact, one that she thought she would never have to revoke. Many times, even though she wasn't all that proud of it, after a good verbal thrashing by the detective, she would imagine putting the pompous old prat in his place, knocking him down a peg. Giving him a good sock in the eye.

But standing here, watching this, she felt so horrifically _terrible_ , because she was wrong, this was wrong. This was so wrong, in so many ways.

John was crying now, and Sherlock rolled over a bit and grabbed at John's waist and buried his head in the beige jumper, shoulders shivering, and John kept running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, making little shushing noises and pressing kiss after kiss into the man's hair.

Sally realized just then that Sherlock had not a stitch of clothing on him, and it was cold; her breath was puffing out in front of her.

She stepped forward a bit, slowly, feeling like she was invading something incredibly private, and slipped off her coat, draping it over him. John gave her a fleeting glance and she haltingly sat down next to him and gingerly started rubbing little circles on Sherlock's back. She could feel every bump in his spine through her coat, and Sally felt a sudden wave of anger at the sneering, smirking Imelda Tosto, a burning sort of hatred. What a monster she must be, to do something like this. What a black-hearted woman.

Lestrade returned, pulling at the hem of his coat, and stopped short in front of Sherlock. "Ambulance is on its way," He breathed. "Jesus, Sherlock. What did that bastard do to you?"

But it was like John and Sherlock were in their own little world.

Suddenly, Sherlock spoke, a raspy sort of sound, painful and dry. "John," He rasped, muffled by the jumper. He shifted himself up a little, shoulders still shaking, and spoke again, clearer this time. "John, I never..."

John was swiping his thumbs over the detective's face, trying and failing to wipe away the layer of blood and dirt and cold sweat. "Shh, Sherlock, I'm here, you don't need to talk..." His voice was shaking, but Sherlock spoke anyway, even as it was obvious that it hurt to speak.

"I'm going to miss it, I'm going to miss my chance, I almost, I have to-" He rambled on, sounding frantic and rushed, and John kept petting his hair and shushing him but he didn't stop, the words tripping over each other in his panicked haze.

"No, I never, never told you, I _have_ to tell you, John Watson, you're _brilliant_ , and _I love you._ "

Everyone in the room went very, very still, the only movement Sherlock's shaking fingers. John had an expression on his face like a bomb had just gone off. Lestrade had a wide-eyed look about him, and Sally's world was crumbling bit by bit.

She had told herself that she hated Sherlock Holmes, because he was an emotionless, heartless, insensitive, brash, arrogant, pompous psychopath, but now she didn't know what to think.

The silence and the stillness broke very abruptly, and John sobbed and buried his face in Sherlock's hair and cried, "You're _amazing_ , you're _amazing_ , _I love you, I love you_ , " Over and over, rocking and clutching at the detective like his life depended on it.

Sally felt privileged and rude and intrusive and a little undeserving of this display, and she moved her hand back and pressed it against her thigh.

The paramedics swooped in quite suddenly and John held onto Sherlock as they used a hefty pair of bolt cutters on the chain and moved him into the ambulance, and Lestrade and Sally followed them outside and watched the ambulance drive away, sirens blazing, leaving little after-images in Sally's vision.

While Sally was in a daze, trying to really digest what she'd just witnessed, she watched Lestrade stroll up to Imelda Tosto and whisper something in her ear that made the woman go very, very pale.

* * *

Sally saw neither of the two men for three weeks.

Until one bleary morning when Sherlock came limping into the building looking very indignant, leaning on silver crutches, John beaming at his side. The army doctor looked so much different than the last time she had seen him. His face had color again- both of their faces, in fact- and he held himself high. Sherlock's ears were red and his face was tight, and when he made eye contact with her, they both went stiff. Sally, after a moment or two, gave him a brief nod, which he returned, then snapped his gaze forward again and limped on.

Lestrade appeared, laughed, and crushed him in a hug, and Sally was one of the blessed people close enough to hear Sherlock's pathetic little squeak as all the air left his lungs. His face went even more red, and he made a show of brushing himself off when Lestrade retreated.

Their visit did not last exceedingly long, because John had begun to tug him towards the door. "I'm your doctor, Sherlock, it's time to go," He said, and Sherlock's mouth twitched up just a bit before he started walking towards the exit.

"Bye," Sally blurted out as the pair passed her, and Sherlock blinked a few times, and John elbowed him gently.

"Uh- yes, goodbye Donovan," He said curtly, and John smiled up at him.

"Go on, Sherlock, I'll be right there," John said, and Sherlock pursed his lips at the doctor and gave Sally a suspicious glance, but went ahead anyway.

John gave her an odd sort of smile, wistful and grateful. "Look, Donovan, I know you don't like Sherlock and I all that much, but I really just wanted to thank you for everything that you did. It means a lot, really." He held out his hand, and Sally shook it and nodded.

"Of course," She said, even though there was a lot more she wanted to say but she didn't know how to.

Sherlock boomed John's name from across the building, sounding moody and impatient, and John nodded goodbye to Sally and trotted off after him.

Sally slowly sat down at her desk. The room was quieting down, people were getting back to work; she herself had a hefty stack of paperwork in front of her that she really didn't want to do.

She looked up and met Lestrade's gaze. He quirked his head a little, eyes narrowed, gaze questioning. _You didn't tell anyone, did you?_

She shook her head, lips tight. _Of course not._

Lestrade sat down with a final nod.

Sally looked down at her paperwork and her computer and her 'World's Best Aunt' mug full of pencils and knew that a big piece of her life had just flopped on its side and died, and she wasn't quite sure what she was going to do about it.


End file.
